Blogging. It’s a funny old game. You plod along, blogging week after week, some days finding it easy to write … others, not so much. But I write because it’s now a part of who I am.
Last night, however, I had a bit of a wobble. And we’re not talking my boobs for once.
The rankings came out for Tots100 and there was the usual flurry of ‘didn’t you do well’ and ‘ooh look how high I am this month’ and it’s fantastic for those bloggers (she says bitterly.) High fives all round. And usually it doesn’t bother me. And, don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t actually ‘bother’ me, because I’ve never been one for worrying about where I place, or whether my Klout is higher than my Kred, or whether Dave’s blog is doing better than mine. (Not sure who Dave is, but my blog is better than his.)
But it did get me to question something. So, like with every other question I need an answer to, I asked Twitter:
“Does anyone actually read my blog? Serious Q.”
I felt like a twat as soon as I posted it, suddenly panicking that people would think it was a really sycophantic thing to do … that I was just looking for 100 (although, quite frankly, I’d have been pleased with two,) bloggers to stand on their chairs and shout, “Yes Kate! Don’t worry! WE read your blog. You are a Goddess of all things redheaded and bloggery!”
They didn’t, obvz, but a fair few lovely people did pause Question Time long enough to reply that yes, they do read the blog and some even left comments which, for 11pm on a Thursday night, is a big ask in my book.
You see, I’ve always thought that I blog ‘for me.’ And I do, for the most part. I don’t analyse what keywords people have used to find my blog and tailor posts accordingly. I don’t crowdsource for topics, or pick stories from the news just so a post will be popular. I write about what’s going on in my life. That’s about it really. It’s just that it tends to cover lots of different, random things. Whether it’s dating, travelling, parenting, karaoke’ing (it’s a word,) or, like tonight, having an existential crisis and rambling on like James Joyce. (Trust me, studied him at Uni – man’s a mentalist.)
But actually, as much as I write for me, I also want to be read. If I didn’t, I’d write a personal diary and lock it away. I want to know that at least someone, somewhere, has read something I’ve written and enjoyed it. Hell, I don’t care if they disagree with what I’ve said or done, or even if they think it’s a big bag o shite, just as long as they have an opinion about my writing.
I write how I speak. My thoughts tumble from head, through my arms and out through my fingers onto the keyboard, so whatever I write is heartfelt. It’s how I feel. Who I am. Even if it is a dissection of yet another dire date.
It’s honest. That’s what my blog is. 100% honest.
I write because I want to share my story, as banal as it often is. I want to tell people that I’m as important as the next person. That I matter I suppose … in my own little way. That even though I may get stressed, or think my life is somewhat boring, or I can’t date for shit … people are still interested.
Fundamentally, we all have stories that we want to tell – bloggers just have a forum to do that. But it takes a lot of courage to do what we do and I think that’s something I hope people appreciate.
Now if this post doesn’t get me to Number 1, I’m never blogging again.